


Combovers Are Not Therapeutic

by everyonesminutes



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, In a manner of speaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyonesminutes/pseuds/everyonesminutes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco learns that mourning his mother is not a clear-cut thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combovers Are Not Therapeutic

**Author's Note:**

> cw: grief/grieving/mourning, death mention

Sometimes he forgets.

It's easier than it sounds, and maybe it's some part of him that's not ready to let her go or maybe the school counsellor is full of bullshit and he should skip the last of their mandatory meetings.

Maybe if he keeps mouthing off about the combover he'll get to skip it anyways. That's all he does during the meetings, anyways. Pointing out the lovely beige color of the walls, really, it just does wonders on a young boy's mood, Mr. Clifford, would it be possible to get a paint sample? Cue restrained sigh, cue another metaphorical tally mark for him.

She would chastise him, of course, for being difficult, but she's. Well. That's the problem, isn't it? He'll be talking about some habit of hers and he'll just stumble on the present tense, because if he uses the past tense it reminds everyone around him that he's _that one kid_ and if there's anything he hates, it's the fact that he is that one kid. Which he gets a nice reminder of when he fumbles with the tenses and then there's that grossly familiar flash of pity that he could seriously, seriously do without. It's so much easier when they're rolling their eyes.

Sometimes it's small things. Stupid things. Like the days where the dishes go unwashed because it's now his turn. Or when he almost says something clever about the nutritionless frozen meal he's microwaving, something she'd appreciate, but lets the words stick in his throat because there will be no answer.

One day he gets a biology test back. It's the makeup one for the day he was "out sick" after a surveillance mission gone wrong. He'd had a bad feeling about it, and of course Jake _had_ to jinx them with his whole "it'll be a quick in and out, easy enough" schpiel, but, hey, every time they escaped with all parts intact was a win in his book. Anyways, that had happened, and the studying had not, so he was frowning at a D and dreading the concerned-slash-motherly disappointment when it happened again. _You can't do that. She's gone._ The voice of truth in his mind was, annoyingly enough, his own voice. He shoves the test into his backpack and doesn't mention it to his father.

Sometimes he's out shopping, and he reaches for a box of alfajores that were her favorites just as, with a weird falling sensation, he remembers. It's not the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion he sees in the movies. He doesn't crumple to the ground, tears in his eyes, still holding the cookies while the camera zooms out dramatically. He almost wishes it were that simple, because hey, at least it would make sense. The unforgiving, suffocatingly dark water in his nightmares? The punches he throws at Jake that they never talk about again? The grief, worse than any disembowelment, that leaves him curled up on his bed, ripped open from the inside? All make sense. And at least crying's in the textbooks. Instead, holding the box, he's met with the feeling of something missing, a patch of sky with no stars. It's dull and solid and sits there, a hard-faced fact. It feels plain wrong.

It's easier when he's rolling his eyes.


End file.
